


Dark places

by Hilarita



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Transvestite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-16
Updated: 2005-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:29:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28390053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hilarita/pseuds/Hilarita
Summary: Written for Tuffgirl who requested cross-dressing Harry, and sex in an unusual location.  The, er, location mentioned at the end of the story does exist.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Kudos: 1





	Dark places

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Tuffgirl who requested cross-dressing Harry, and sex in an unusual location. The, er, location mentioned at the end of the story does exist.

Snape was a man who watched the dark places. He was doing so now, out in a very discreet club in wizarding Paris. He was examining a transvestite; one who sat in one of the darkest corners of the club, which was enough to draw his eye to start with; one dressed in black, which made his eye linger. His experience of this tribe was that they tended to be flamboyant, dressing in colours which made Dumbledore’s dress sense look subdued. Unless things had changed so much during the war – but no, he could see dozens of them clustering round the bar, waspy corsets over sequinned robes, make-up painted on.

He could tell it was a man, even in the darkness. The movement was wrong for a woman, though the man had poise. He went over to the bar and bought himself a drinks He took it and skirted round the dance floor to a table near the dark alcove where the man sat. He was dressed in black, heavily embroidered black, robes tight and low-cut, with corsetry beneath. The hair was swept back into a glossy wing and the face was discreetly painted.

Snape nearly dropped his drink. After a moment’s thought, though, he realised that it could not possibly be the Man Who Lived. No, this was clearly a high-class whore making his living by pretending to be Potter. Potter himself was living the life of a playboy, seen at all the best parties, granted an enormous pension by the Ministry of Magic, since he’d been crippled in the battle with Voldemort. No, Potter would never be seen in a gay club in France. But this whore had clearly done his research – Potter never wore anything other than black, in tribute to those who had died when he survived. The lightning-bolt scar was a thin red line, not the purple swollen sore it had been last time he’d seen Potter.

He continued to watch as a chestnut-haired wizard brought a drink over to the table and started chatting up the Whore-Who-Lived. Shortly he saw them heading towards one of the club’s back rooms, and he wandered after them, stopping at the bar to refresh his drink.

The two men had opted to perform their activities on one of the couches in the back room, in full view, not in one of the more private cubicles. Normally Snape disdained to be a voyeur, but he was, above all, a spy, and he had noticed that the scar on the whore’s forehead was not drawn in with make-up, but was real. He had also noticed that the whore drank nothing other than drinks from the bar, and Snape had been watching him for more than an hour. So now he wanted to see what would happen, as the whore had carefully avoided being touched all the way through the club. That suggested ‘glamour’ to Snape; even Lockhart hadn’t used a glamour, because they got disrupted as soon as you were touched.

But the whore continued to look entirely like Harry Potter.

Snape watched almost impassively as the chestnut-haired wizard buggered the Potter-whore, who moaned a thready encouragement the whole time. Snape’s prick was entirely interested in the proceedings, but his mind was elsewhere. There had been no amazing advances in Polyjuice to extend its duration, even in the two years since the war. Glamours verged on the Dark Arts, and Snape had always taken a keen interest in them, and it was quite clear that glamours still had all the disadvantages they had always had. He had discounted some time ago that it was an appropriately-sized prostitute made up to look like the Man Who Lived; Snape had spent too much time in Potter’s presence to be able to mistake him or the way he moved. So he was left with the inescapable conclusion that it genuinely was the Man Who Lived, Order of Merlin 1st Class, Supreme Master of the Order of the Phoenix, Honorary Member of the International Committee of Defense Masters, Witch Weekly’s Most Eligible Batchelor, American Witch Weekly’s Most Shaggable Batchelor, Daily Prophet’s International Playboy, Centrefold for Playwitch Magazine three months running, who was being shagged vigorously in the back room of a Parisian club.

Snape thought back to the last Daily Prophet article. Potter was in Germany, supposedly shagging his way through the unwed female purebloods of Bavaria. International apparition was possible after all, even if it did tend to leave most wizards too weak to do anything when they got there. Potter must have some kind of pied-a-terre to come to, in which to keep his clothes, to hide.

The chestnut-haired wizard stopped shagging Potter, and tucked a 500-galleon note into his corset.* So Potter was pretending to be a whore. Snape thought he should at least have pretended to be drinking Polyjuice.

Potter got up and headed towards the exit. Snape followed him, muttering a quiet concealment charm. He was quite hard to follow; Snape concluded he must have used a similar charm himself. He wandered through the streets of Paris, into one of the Muggle quartiers, where he let himself into a flat. Snape noticed him picking up mail from a box marked ‘10’.

Snape spent the rest of his holidays in Paris, frequenting the same club. Potter was a semi-regular there, visiting at least once a week, but on different nights. And each time he would go away with precisely one customer, and a hell of a lot of money. Snape ascertained that Potter always went to the Muggle flat, and stopped following him, lest he be noticed. A good spy knows when not to go too far, and Harry Potter was highly trained in spotting undesirables. Snape had seen to that himself.

Snape obsessively read all the publicity material about Harry Potter. His cover stories were good, Snape gave him that, and whenever the Prophet said he’d be at a dinner or some other event, Potter was always there, in pictures. These dates never coincided with the times he was seen in the Paris club.

The next time Potter was booked to be at a Ministry of Magic event, Snape was in Paris, carefully examining Potter’s apartment. The Muggle security elements on the flats were no difficulty for a decent wizard, though they would certainly have given a Muggle burglar pause. Snape did check for magical enhancements, but found none, as he expected. The effort involved was wholly disproportionate to the benefit. There was hefty warding around the flat itself, but a cleverly modified Disingenuus spell, and Snape was persuading the wards that he was a plumber, fully authorised by the owner. He felt Potter rather lax to have overlooked the possibility of maintenance men. Still, it made his life easier.

It was a plain flat, for one of the richest wizards in the western hemisphere. Potter had a TV and several other Muggle contraptions, a double bed with only one set of pillows in it. The kitchen cupboards had a lot of dried goods in them, including powdered milk and eggs. It was properly provided for occasional overnight stays. The bathroom had a full set of toiletries, and the bedside cabinet had some high-quality wizarding lubricant and some Muggle protective sheaths.

It was the wardrobes which interested Snape the most. They contained both wizarding and Muggle clothing – all women’s clothing, tailored, as Snape could see, to fit a slender male form. All the clothing was black. A chest of drawers revealed corsetry, bras, stockings, suspenders, knickers, all black, of lace or satin or silk. He breathed deeply.

He didn’t know what surprised him more: that Harry Potter was a gay transvestite, or that Harry Potter was successfully leading a double life, one night leading around the most desirable women in Europe, another being bent over a couch in full view in a gay club, being buggered by any wizard rich enough. Snape was an honest enough man to admit to himself that both prospects aroused him unbelievably; he was also a man with sufficient self-control to show not an iota of his desire to anyone who might be watching. He removed his cloak and sat himself on Potter’s bed. He thought he had approximately twenty-four hours to wait; the day after the biggest Ministry parties Potter usually came to Paris.

It all went marvellously to plan. Potter wandered in uncautiously, having sensed nothing wrong with his wards. There was a delicious moment of double-take as Potter spotted him on the bed and froze in the doorway.

‘What the fuck are you doing here, Snape?’  
‘Waiting for you.’ Snape kept his voice low and menacing, with just a hint of lust.  
‘I know about your secret,’ he added after Harry made no reply, and gestured at the cupboards of women’s clothing.

‘Get out.’

‘Oh but you don’t mean that, do you? I can tell.’ Potter was breathing fast, trying to work out what Snape wanted.

‘I want you, Potter. I hold your secret in my hand, and I want such a simple thing. You. I want to fuck you as much as you want to be fucked. I want to see you in your silks and satins, and know that you will remove them for me and only me. In return, I will keep you and your secret safe, and satisfy your desire for risk.’ Snape could see a flush on Potter’s cheeks, and a tell-tale bulge in Potter’s trousers.

‘How did you get here?’

‘I was a spy, Potter. You don’t think you’re better at covering your tracks than Voldemort or Lucius? Though it was sheer bad luck on your part that someone observant enough should spot you at a club.’ Potter seemed terribly accepting. Snape used a whisker of legilimency, and felt Potter let him in. How unexpected to find that the boy had some kind of fetish for greasy ugly ex-spies.

‘Don’t hang around all day, boy. Get dressed.’

Potter smiled, and started to strip methodically. His jacket went on a hook behind the door, his top neatly folded on a nearby chair. He unbuckled his belt and laid it near the bed, muscles moving smoothly over his chest and arms. The Muggle shoes were slipped off, socks tidied into them, and trousers and underpants removed in one smooth glide. Snape forced himself to keep his breathing even. The Golden boy was a magnificent sight, slender, supple, smooth-skinned. His cock was large and sticking straight out from his body already. He walked over to the cupboard and took out a filmy thong from the drawer.

Snape stared at Potter’s arse, left almost bare by the thong. The young man got out a green corset from a drawer and tightened it by magic. Small pebbled nipples peeked out across the top of the garment. Snape was thoroughly tumescent by now, and he forced himself to keep a very rigid control as Potter slid on hold-up stockings with lacy tops, and slid himself into the latest wizarding ladies gown, split up to the thigh, and daringly low-cut. He finished off with high heels. Both men were breathing hard by now.

‘Hold on to me Potter.’ Snape Apparated them both out of the apartment, and landed them both outside an old stone building.

‘Where are we?’

‘Potter, are you telling me that you don’t recognise the college which Miss Granger is attending?’

‘I didn’t know you knew it. I’ve only been here once. How do you know and why are we here?’

‘Firstly Potter, I, like all Masters of Art, have attended a wizarding university. Like Miss Granger, I chose this one. Secondly, we are here because there it is May Week and there is a play on.’

‘Oh.’

They walked into the college, following signs to the garden and sat down on the grass to watch the play. Snape bought Harry a programme and settled down to watch a version of Much Ado set in the Jazz age. It was an interesting time, and Harry seemed to quite enjoy it, despite his lack of culture. Snape let his hand ghost up Harry’s thigh, enjoying the warmth of the evening sun, the rich bickering of Beatrice and Benedick, and the feel of Harry’s muscles under his fingers, sliding over the silky dress.

Snape could feel Harry tensing, wondering what Snape was doing with him. He smiled; he had it all planned. A long, languid wait, followed by a stunning finale.

After the actors had finished, Snape dragged Harry round the garden behind an ancient mulberry tree. He pressed the young man up against the trunk and began kissing him fiercely. It was a tremendous thrill. They might be happened upon at any moment. He got down on his knees and lifted up Harry’s skirt. He pushed aside the thong and began sucking at Harry’s dick, sucking hard as Harry’s hands fisted his hair. He stopped before Harry came, and span him round. He hiked the skirt up and shoved the thong aside. A muttered spell and Snape was burying his fingers deep in Harry, scissoring away. The boy was panting and biting down on his hand as Snape penetrated him, the cool evening air brushing across their exposed flesh. It didn’t last long, and they came heavily, the leaves of the mulberry tree brushing over their heads.

A cleaning spell, and Snape escorted Harry around the precincts of the college. Harry looked happier than he’d been for a long time, and Snape felt a kind of quiet contentment. This new arrangement was quite promising, indeed.  


* I’ve unilaterally decided that wizards might just have discovered the benefits of paper money by now. The 500-galleon note has a picture of Harry Potter on it.  



End file.
